


As Beasts

by jonnimir



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha Will Graham, Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Danger Kink, Dubious Consent, Feral Behavior, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Painful Sex, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, fear kink, ruts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 02:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17377835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnimir/pseuds/jonnimir
Summary: When they reunite in Florence, Will finds Hannibal has gone off his rut suppressants, intending to allow his most primal instincts to decide if the urge to mate Will outweighs the urge to kill him. The situation is greatly complicated by the fact that they're both alphas, and Will is certain that whether desire or aggression wins, he won't escape unscathed.





	As Beasts

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Dolce, and you can assume everything leading up to this happened pretty much the same as in canon, with only small a/b/o adjustments.
> 
> See end notes for spoilery details on the dub-con warning (the gist is there's a lot of fear and unwanted roughness involved, but Will's still [mostly] into it).
> 
> Thanks to justlikeyouimagined for betaing this a few months back, before I got wildly distracted with other fics. Since I've had a bit of difficulty with my next Kinktober, I decided to take a quick break to polish this up.

Will considers the man before him. Cuts and scrapes mar the elegance of his face, barely begun to heal. They mirror Will’s own wounds from being thrown from the train. It no longer feels like they are different sides of the same coin; it feels like they are both the entirety of that coin, spinning in the air and flashing darkness and light in turn. Hannibal’s absence left Will with a constant ache, as if something vital had been carved out of him, and every day that the memory of Hannibal faded a bit, the world around him seemed to do the same. Now here he is, looking somehow more vibrant than Will remembered, as vivid as the _Primavera_ itself—so brilliant that the color bleeds into the air with abandon—and the ache has receded. It feels like coming home.

Hannibal’s attention is so profound that Will feels like layers of himself are peeling off under the scrutiny, just as he feared. Will can barely even stand to watch him for long; this proximity is overwhelming enough. He turns his eyes to the brilliance of the Botticelli, golden brushstrokes shimmering in the light. It feels like he’s watching through Hannibal’s eyes.

“You and I have begun to blur.”

Hannibal turns his head away too, looking down. Overcome by some emotion that he doesn’t wish to share. “Isn’t that how you found me?”

“I was driven to it. Even as the possibility of free will dissipates, I continue to feel and act as though I have it.”

“We are all caught in a tangle of instincts and destiny, beast and philosopher. That is not what haunts you. The worm that destroys you is the temptation to agree with your critics.” Hannibal looks at him again, and Will has to set his jaw to steady his resolve.

“ _You_ haunt me. Every crime of yours feels like one I am guilty of. Not just Abigail’s murder, but every murder, stretching backward and forward in time.”

“We are unmated, and yet you take responsibility for my actions as if we were. As if we acted in tangent and you could exert influence on me through a bond.”

He sounds almost bitter, and Will has a flash of sympathy. He has spent enough nights wondering if that could be the case, if they might have somehow formed an involuntary bond—a poorly understood process triggered by some combination of biological and emotional attunement, a cascade of hormonal and neurochemical shifts that precisely mimic the shifts of a traditional mating bond. But it’s less likely, though not unheard of, that this would happen between two alphas, and Will isn’t certain Hannibal is even capable of the emotional intimacy necessary for such a process.

Softly, and with a grim smile, he says, “We’re unmated, but we’re conjoined nonetheless.”

Hannibal’s nostrils flare. His head inclines slightly. “Freeing yourself from me and me freeing myself from you, they’re the same. We have attempted to sever a connection that is less physical than it is metaphysical.”

Will remembers the pain that Hannibal left him with, piercing him far deeper than the wound to his stomach. He shakes his head slightly, because it would be too easy to reduce this to abstractions. “The metaphysical and the physical are intertwined. The mark of your knife lies on my skin forever. As real as the scars on your wrists, my mark by proxy.”

Hannibal’s eyes slide to his abdomen, as if he could see the scar through cloth.

“We are both profoundly marked by each other.” His voice sounds contemplative, but distant.

Will looks at him curiously. “Physically or metaphysically, I’m curious if either of us can survive separation.”

“As am I.” His gaze looks slightly glassy, unfocused. At first, Will assumes Hannibal is withholding some shade of emotion from him, but when nothing more is said, he knows something is wrong.

Then it hits him: a smell not unlike oiled leather. His breath catches in his throat.

Considering the destruction that can easily be wrought by even generally well-mannered alphas if they go into rut in public, it’s generally recommended, though not legally mandated, that they take suppressants to prevent the hormonal spike that triggers them. Will knows Hannibal takes them in order to remain in absolute control of his actions in public—a rut could easily drive him to inopportune homicide. But the smell…

“Hannibal. Please tell me you’re still on suppressants.”

His brow furrows. “Not since Palermo. I was curious how I would respond to you when we next met. You are not an omega, and yet… this conjoinment…”

It’s easy enough for Will to figure out what he means, though his heart pounds at the implications. “You wondered if we might have formed an involuntary bond. But you couldn’t figure out if it was a bond or just obsession with me and my betrayal. Either way, you thought seeing me might send you into rut, and… you would either try to fuck me or kill me.”

Strictly speaking, there is no physiological difference between ruts induced by the presence of one’s mate and those triggered by aggression—usually toward another alpha. Both situations cause a surge of hormones that enable an alpha to fight harder and fuck harder, while also triggering a heat in compatible mates. Both tend to override more complex human emotions, leaving the alpha’s sharper and more powerful primal instincts in charge. The question here will be whether those instincts interpret Will as a mate, or a threat.

Hannibal nods, but falters when he begins to answer. He doesn’t quite meet Will’s eyes. “Our conscious attempts to direct our fates have been so doomed. I thought… to do battle without armor, as beasts, would remove the constraints that have foiled us.”

“I still have constraints—I’m on suppressants. I can’t respond to your rut with my own, and I’m not equipped to be on the receiving end. You’ve stacked the deck.”

“You have the advantage of mental clarity. I will not much longer. I feel… rather overwhelmed.” His eyes close and his nostrils flare again. “You smell like something from my youth. Oakmoss and chestnut honey… chips of fir singed in a fire.”

Will’s senses are on high alert, and when Hannibal places a hand on his leg he can’t help but jerk away from the contact. Hannibal’s eyes fly open, burning, and he replaces his hand more firmly, fingers wrapping around Will’s thigh.

“Do not leave me.” Hannibal’s voice is low, almost a growl.

Will stares at him. He cannot see past the brewing anger on Hannibal’s face and the heaviness of his breath, chest visibly rising and falling. He will have little warning if Hannibal does strike. He has a knife in his pocket— _just in case_ , he told himself—so he could save himself with a lethal strike, but anything less will just enrage Hannibal when his adrenal glands are on overdrive.

He can’t bring himself to make that move. He places his hand tentatively on Hannibal’s, as if it would help him retain some control. Slowly, and as plainly as if he was speaking to a child, he says, “Hannibal, we can’t do this here. Come back to my hotel with me, just a few blocks away. You can stay there until this passes.”

Hannibal’s pupils are much larger than they should be in the bright light of the gallery; they threaten to swell beyond their limits. “It will not pass until I have you.”

It sounds almost threatening, but it also makes something coil low in Will’s stomach, writhing with the possibilities. His body, at least, seems to think Hannibal has fallen on the side of lust rather than rage, and when Hannibal’s hand slides further up his thigh he doesn’t move away from it, just tenses. He thinks of what Hannibal is going to try to do to his ill-prepared body, and it sends shivers through him—some form of hyperarousal that could be terror, lust, or some infernal combination of the two.

Frankly, an attempt at murder would be easier to deal with. He tries to think past the immediacy of this contact. If he tries to deny Hannibal, his fury will be a sight to behold. Even fighting back with a knife would be dangerous, and his rage could easily transfer onto anyone in the vicinity, perceiving them as competition for Will. Will can’t accept his advances in the middle of the gallery, either—fucking him without lube is not a viable option, and he knows Hannibal won’t care about that during his rut, and would take him dry right there on the bench. Anyone who inevitably tries to break them apart—since without an omega involved it will likely be mistaken for a dominance fight—risks lethal injury.

No matter what, Hannibal will be a terror until he is sated.

Will tries to steady his breath. “Okay. If you follow me home, you can have me, got it? You just need to wait a little bit longer.”

Hannibal leans against him and inhales near his neck, hands beginning to roam across his body. “Will. I need…”

Will bites his lip. Hannibal has never been so close and free with his touch as he is now, and it is demolishing his ability to reason. He wants to give in and touch him in return, wind their bodies together and have just a taste, except it wouldn’t stop there. And he’s pretty sure he also wants to smack Hannibal in the face for being so phenomenally reckless.

“We have to leave now.”

“Will…” Hannibal seems to be quickly reaching the point of becoming non-verbal, and they need to get out of there before he is completely lost to his rut.

“Yeah, yeah. Just come with me.” He stands up, sweeping Hannibal’s hands off him as he does so. He is quickly rewarded with a flash of fangs and eyes boring into him, daring him to move. He bares his own teeth too quickly to think, and the air between them suddenly becomes thick and brittle with tension. Hannibal rises to his feet slowly, gracefully. A seamless motion that makes Will’s heart pound, and just like that they are eye to eye, staring each other down. He wonders if there’s a switch in Hannibal’s mind that can flip from seeing a mate to seeing an alpha aggressor, and how easily, exactly, that might happen.

Taking a deep breath and suppressing the very loud part of his brain that tells him he’s endangering himself, he tilts his head back, exposing just enough of his throat to appease the alpha. With a less aggressive expression that doesn’t lack for intensity, Hannibal takes a step forward and Will stumbles back, cursing internally. This is going to be complicated.

Although he tracks every movement Hannibal makes with absolute vigilance, he talks quietly and gently as he lures him out of the room, as if he isn’t terrified one wrong move might result in bloodshed. “Yeah, good. Follow me.”

Fortunately, the _Primavera_ is only a few rooms and one staircase from the entrance, but the Uffizi isn’t empty of tourists. He catches curious looks out of the corner of his eyes, and sees Hannibal tense when people get too close. He reaches out and brushes Hannibal’s fingers with his own to reassure him. Hannibal looks hypnotized, but Will wonders how the hell they can keep this up all the way to the hotel. There doesn’t seem to be much of the man left inside the beast.

He hesitates at the top of the stairs, wondering if there’s an alternative to trying to back down them. Hannibal is on him in a minute, rubbing his face against Will’s neck and pressing against him until he collides with a column, narrowly missing a marble bust. Will gets a blast of leather and pheromones to his nose and is surprised by how strongly he wants to scent Hannibal in turn, not fight him off.  But they can’t do this here. He pushes Hannibal away from his neck only to have Hannibal’s mouth collide with his a moment later. He tastes…

He tastes of rut, like the wild beast that he is. He tastes like sin, like darkness and blood-red passion. But more than that, he tastes like Hannibal. Like Will somehow already knew he would taste, like a part of him that had been fractured and lost to memory, only to reappear in blinding light. He tastes like _mate_.

Will struggles to detach himself, and when he manages to break the kiss he feels dizzy. Maybe from arousal, maybe from the sheer shock of such powerful certainty that he and Hannibal had managed to bond without a single bite being exchanged.

“Hell,” he mutters. If he has to control his own desire as well as Hannibal’s, this is going to be even harder than he expected. He can’t even resist a second fleeting kiss before their next move, chasing that taste like he’ll starve without it. “Follow me down the stairs. I’m _not running away_ , okay? Just follow me.”

And then, one hand awkwardly trailing behind him to keep contact with Hannibal, he descends the stairs more quickly than he normally would, not convinced he won’t be jumped if he’s too slow.

He stumbles slightly off the last step and Hannibal takes advantage of his momentary disorientation, plowing him through a small crowd of tourists until he hits a wall, his hands flying out to brace himself.

There’s a growl in his ear and hands grabbing his ass, and he pants against the wall, willing himself not to buck into it. He turns his head and sees a number of concerned faces turning his way.

“Shit.” He wonders if there are enough scents floating through the air here that people won’t be able to tell they’re both alphas. Not that it much matters—the scent of a single alpha in rut is enough to make people skittish, regardless of who else is involved. “Everything’s okay,” he says loudly, but with his voice unsteady. “Just bad timing. We’re okay.”

Quietly to Hannibal, whose face is pressing into his neck: “Get a hold of yourself. You’re not a damn teenager.”

Hannibal, of course, does not respond. Will manages to turn around, though that leaves Hannibal groping his cock instead of his ass, and he keens so loudly that he wonders if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. Hannibal, however, responds with frenetic enthusiasm, rolling his hips against Will with crushing force—and _fuck_ , Will can feel how hard he is, can feel him jutting into his abdomen, against the scar he left—and he must be able to smell Will’s arousal now, and that’s making everything ten times worse. He tries to wriggle free, but it just causes more friction between them.

“Signori,” comes a tentative voice. “Sirs, I must ask you to leave.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Will huffs, but Hannibal’s head whips around to locate the person who dared interrupt them. He curls his fingers into Will’s hips, laying his claim, and snarls.

The young security guard looks thoroughly alarmed, and takes a step back.

Will tugs at Hannibal’s shirt to distract him. “Hey. Eyes on me. Please.”

Even without being the object of his focus, he can see how murderous Hannibal’s expression is, and how reluctant he is to drag his eyes away from this target. But, slowly, he does so. His eyes are back on Will’s, and they are dark, fevered in a way he has never seen—but some part of him is still present. Will can feel his labored breathing, like he is using every ounce of self-restraint to keep the beast within him from running rampant, to force it to heed Will’s words. This aggression and possessiveness and fury… this is with the influence of self-restraint.

But the guard clearly doesn’t realize this. He must think this is the worst of it, and with the courage of a few extra steps distance from them, he makes another attempt. “If you don’t leave now, I—”

This time Will joins Hannibal in glaring at the guard. “We’re leaving. But unless you have a death wish you need to back away now, because I won’t be able to stop him from hurting you if you don’t.”

The guard backs away further, along with most of the rest of the room. Some of the tension eases from Hannibal’s muscles, and Will takes the opportunity to pull free from his grasp and back toward the door.

“This way,” he murmurs. “Forget about him.”

Hannibal looks displeased that he’s moved away from him again, and advances on him with a single-mindedness that makes his heart palpitate. He exposes his neck again as he exits to the courtyard, and breathes a sigh of relief when that, on top of the less claustrophobic environment, seems to placate the beast.

He remains painfully aware of how suddenly this could go sideways. Someone is probably calling the police now to alert them, and the last thing they need is to get more people involved. They need to move quickly, but he has visions of tripping and falling and having Hannibal pounce, mount him right there in the street. He imagines Hannibal suddenly lunging at him and making him panic enough that he does something stupid, like reach for his knife. He’d probably rip Will’s throat out on impulse. And if Hannibal wants to—if he _really_ wants too, if his brain stops taking cues from Will and decides enough is enough—the chemical advantage of his rut gives him a more than decent chance of being able to overpower Will, and he can take him by force anywhere, dry and brutal. Any penetration would be bad enough, but with the added girth of a knot…

He can’t think too hard about it. They continue their careful dance of pushing and pulling and submissive posturing from Will, following the bank of the Arno river. When Hannibal seems to become distracted by the proximity of others, Will undoes a couple buttons on his shirt, and Hannibal’s nose twitches. He can surely smell Will’s scent, complete with fear and more than a little bit of arousal—it’s impossible to avoid it with the memory of Hannibal’s taste and the blatant hunger fixed in his gaze. The further they go, the more the idea of being fucked against the nearest wall becomes appealing—if not for the lack of lube.

When Will looks down a street and finally sees the tell-tale green cross of a pharmacy, he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Okay, quick detour.” As if the words will mean anything to Hannibal, he adds, “I’m not an omega, and we need lube.”

It is, unsurprisingly, an awkward transaction, but Will is able to find a bottle and throw some euros at the cashier before Hannibal gets too handsy, and then they’re back outside, heading down the narrow sidewalk.

“Good. Just one more block and then we’ll—”

But he’s interrupted by a large man knocking into him as he passes, jostling him to the side. Hannibal’s eyes leave Will’s immediately, snapping to the perpetrator with terrifying intensity. It reminds him of how Hannibal looked at Mason the night he made him mutilate himself: dark, frigid, and so blatantly sadistic that he’s sure even the average person would know something was awry. There is nothing left of his usual mask, and it is more clear than ever that this is not just an average rut—this is the Ripper, _il Mostro_ , no longer restrained by any pretenses of humanity.

Hannibal tries to move past him to get to the man, unwavering, and Will seizes his jacket by the lapels, pushing back. “Hey, no.” He bites his tongue before he can let slip the words “ _bad_ Hannibal,” even though at the moment it’s not unlike managing a poorly behaved dog.

Hannibal looks at him briefly, teeth bared, and shrugs Will away, tries again to move forward.

“Leave it,” he hisses. He has to brace himself on the cobblestone and push back with all his strength, and that’s a frightening realization—that Hannibal is even stronger than he thought, and it’s quite possible he was being _gentle_ earlier. He thinks, again, how well and truly screwed he is. “ _No_.”

Hannibal opens his mouth, and though a growl rattles in his throat he manages to pronounce, “He touched you.”

“I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.”

“You are _mine_.”

“Oh for chri—” The fact that it’s possessiveness, rather than defensiveness, that’s made him so determined to disembowel someone is unsurprising, yet exasperating. And, noting a pleasant lurch in his stomach, possibly not entirely unattractive. “Hannibal. Listen. Yeah, I’m yours. Okay? I’m all yours.”

Hannibal stops struggling quite so hard, so Will keeps going in as soothing a tone as he can manage, given he’s panting with exertion. “I’m yours, and no one is going to take me away, okay? You can have me just like you want. Just have to wait a minute longer, then we’ll be at the hotel, and you can have me. Only you. And you can fuck me and…” _Knot me_ , is the way that sentence is supposed to end, but thinking of the logistics of it stops him dead. He swallows.

But it works. Hannibal is no longer focused on the stranger; his attention is entirely on Will. Fury replaced with something equally fierce, something so overtly sexual that when Hannibal attempts to kiss him again he temporarily loses his mind and kisses back just as passionately.

They both earn a new bruise or two when Will tries to redirect their course to the hotel, but at this point there is no way Hannibal could miss the smell of Will’s arousal, and this seems to reassure him that Will isn’t attempting to escape in earnest.

Will is pretty sure there’s not a chance in hell Hannibal will have the patience to let him prepare himself, so as soon as they make it into his room he makes a break for the bathroom and locks himself in. The door rattles loudly behind him.

“Give me a minute, Hannibal,” he shouts, hurriedly stripping down. First his jacket—because god, he’s sweating like hell—then his pants. “I have to prep so you don’t tear me apart.”

His pants hit the tile floor with a thud—the weight of the knife in his pocket. He stares at it for a moment, indulging the thought that the _smart_ thing to do would be to take it and defend himself, but the door rattles again and he makes his final decision.

He tears open the lube, puts one foot on the toilet seat for easier access, and sets to work. The bathroom door shakes with the force of someone making a serious effort to break it down, and he’s willing to bet Hannibal will be able to. His heart is in his throat, and his hands are shaking terribly. His tension is making it difficult to stretch himself, and it’s an uncomfortable rush job.

He just barely manages to get three fingers into himself before the door gives way with a bang.

Hannibal straightens himself to his full height, panting. Will freezes. He’s cornered, and there is only one way this can end. Hannibal knows it too, not bothering to rush him. Eyes fixed on Will, he carelessly sheds his own clothes and advances on him.

Will backs against the wall, gaze roaming over Hannibal’s newly exposed skin. Despite the circumstances being less than ideal, he’d be lying if he claimed he’d never fantasized about a nice rough fuck with Hannibal, and even now he can appreciate the sight of his powerful physique. And his cock, already hard. Fuck. He’s definitely not prepared enough for that—let alone his knot.

The realization makes him flinch, and Hannibal stops, watching him carefully. Like he’s searching for the first sign of an attempt to flee, and preparing to subdue him if he does.

Will’s body is sending him some seriously mixed signals. He smells his mate, and he wants to fuck him. He sees the predatory demeanor of another alpha, a threat, and he wants to growl, to fight him off. Smack in the middle of the two is the desire to tackle Hannibal to the ground and fuck him himself, but that seems like a tremendously bad idea at the moment. Hannibal would probably win, and end up killing him.

“I got myself ready for you,” he says, hoping Hannibal will understand something of the sentiment. “I won’t fight it.”

Hannibal wastes no more time. Too impatient to bother with buttons, he rips Will’s shirt clean down the front and pulls it halfway down his arms. The full length of his body presses Will against the wall, and he buries his nose against Hannibal’s neck, seeking his scent in the thin sheen of sweat. The scent, heat, and pressure of Hannibal’s body rubbing against his own gets him hard quickly. Hannibal starts with soft nips, the gentle tease of teeth, but soon bites his shoulder hard enough that despite his promise not to fight, Will reflexively snarls and twists, wriggling free of his shirt and yanking Hannibal away by his hair. If only from surprise, Hannibal releases him, and Will shoves him until his back hits the door jamb.

With his hair fallen over his eyes and teeth stained with blood, he looks absolutely feral and perfect. Will’s suppressants will prevent a true rut of his own, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still be desperately turned on, and right now he feels like his skin is on fire and Hannibal is the only way to extinguish the flames. Will kisses him fiercely, grabbing his hips and pulling until their cocks rub together, friction soon smoothed by precum. He moans into the kiss as they desperately rut into each other, and Hannibal flips their position and crushes him against the wall. Will goes rigid for a second before relaxing. Hannibal’s tongue plunges into his mouth and he hikes Will’s knee up his side, reaching around until he brushes against Will’s entrance. He makes a low noise of approval, recognition that his mate is slick and ready for him. Will gasps as two fingers slide into him and curl, and rolls his hips to encourage him, to try to get as much of this as he can before he’s mounted.

Hannibal lets him fuck himself on his fingers and starts sucking bruises onto his neck. A particularly sharp pinch at his throat makes Will tense and curl his nails into Hannibal’s skin, but that simply makes him suck harder and more painfully. The pain suddenly makes Will lash out and Hannibal has to use both hands to restrain him. He can’t reason with the part of himself that’s decided this is when he needs to fight. In an instant, he gets one hand free to yank at Hannibal's hair again and kicks out with his feet. And that does it. With a bestial noise, Hannibal yanks Will’s head back and locks his teeth firmly around his windpipe, biting down hard enough that Will feels choked.

He goes still immediately, dropping his hands and struggling to suck air deep into his lungs. He can feel the panicked pulse of his jugular against Hannibal’s teeth. For a moment he’s sure this is the end—Hannibal will kill him, after all, unable to reconcile his disparate instincts. He whimpers quietly, soft and high. It’s a humiliating appeasement, but the only option left for survival now that an alpha is poised to rip out his throat. Hannibal gives a soft growl and kneads his ass, then eases his jaw. He thrusts blindly against Will, searching for his entrance, but the mechanics of this position must be too challenging for his rut-addled brain—he makes a noise of frustration and instead tears Will away from the wall, gripping tight to the nape of his neck and forcing him to his knees, and then to his stomach. Will is dimly aware of being half-hard as he hits the ground.

Hannibal nuzzles into the back of his neck, panting against it. Will has barely a second to be relieved that “mate” seems to have won over “kill” before his legs are forced apart, and he begins to hyperventilate. He doesn’t know how much is lust and how much is fear, everything far too blurred together, but he can’t remain still. He scrambles slightly, trying to get his arms beneath him for some kind of leverage, but Hannibal lays a hand between his shoulder blades and leans his full weight on it. Will collapses flat with a groan.

Hannibal’s cock slides between his cheeks, and only presses against his entrance for a split second before ramming into him.

Will cries out. He was right—he was not well enough prepared. Every muscle in his body clenches in protest against the pain, turning him rigid and buzzing with strain, and that just makes it worse.

Hannibal is merciless as he fucks deeper, grunting, breath hot and humid against the back of Will’s neck.

Will tries to pull himself forward—just a little, just enough to change the angle, try to ease the way—but Hannibal’s reaction is fervent. He wrenches Will’s arms straight back and bites deep into his shoulder, puncturing skin in a livid flash of pain.

“ _Fuck_.” Will only has enough breath for the one curse. Hannibal keeps his teeth embedded in his flesh and thrusts into him roughly, impatiently.

The pains lighting up his body are sharp and burning and aching and they make him see stars, but as much as he’d like to sink his teeth into Hannibal to pay him back, he also wants _this_. It’s overwhelming, all hard edges and excruciatingly raw sensations—but it’s real. He’s pinned beneath Hannibal, his mate, and everything he’s feeling now is miles better than the numbness he felt in his absence.

The force of the thrusts jars him and causes friction between his dick and the floor. It’s too much, too rough for that sensitive skin, and he worries briefly about the consequences of getting rug burn down there, but the onslaught of _too much_ is somehow turning into _just right_. The brush of Hannibal against something inside him that is also too sensitive, too tender, but also wildly right makes it all blur together, the pleasure and the pain.

Hannibal bites him in another spot, and another, and Will can’t tell if he’s breaking the skin anymore because it’s all so much.

“Fuck,” he repeats, gasping. “Shit, fuck, Hannibal, I—”

He doesn’t know how he intends to finish the sentence. Because the sensation is getting ever more intense, and he knows why.

Ruts aren’t designed for stamina—they’re designed to fuck a mate into submission and fill them with as many loads of cum as possible in as short a time frame as possible. That means a shorter refractory period.

It also means faster knotting.

He is flooded with panic again, and his hands twitch with the reflex to do something, anything, but his wrists are pinned tightly against the floor and he makes no real effort to escape. He’s not sure he would want to, if he could. His instincts are vague on details, but he knows he wants to be close to his mate, as close as possible. Intimate. Rough though it may be, this gives him that.

He bears down and tears up as the stretch gets worse, knot gradually inflating. He claws his nails into the carpet. Hannibal is the only thing he can feel, making space for himself inside, so much space it feels like he may split Will open.

The knot tugs on its way out, and when it’s forced back inside him he sobs.

Hannibal noses against his jaw, nips lightly as he fucks with short, quick thrusts, grunting until his body jerks and he comes with a long groan.

“Ah,” Will gasps. He can feel Hannibal twitching inside him, filling him up. There’s so much of it, as usual for a rut, flowing until he feels so full he whimpers. “ _Hannibal_.”

Hannibal shudders on his back, rolling his hips slightly even though he’s drained.

And then, with so much softness it’s jarring: “Will.”

He could have been bitter, but he’s simply relieved. “Glad you’re back with me.”

Hannibal sighs and rubs the side of his face against Will’s tear-damp cheek, taking his time before speaking again. “I was never truly gone. Simply in an altered state, without the inhibitions to control myself.”

Will feels him lightly trace a throbbing bite mark on his back, and it makes him shiver and arch into it. He repeats the gesture on sore spots across his back, shoulders, and neck.

“I’m almost surprised at myself,” Hannibal says. “All these marks of passion, but none deep enough on your neck to constitute a bond. Even the most base of my instincts must have known you were already mine, the bond formed of its own accord.”

Will nods as much as he’s able, but he’s distracted. He presses his face into the carpet with a slight groan of frustration, until he can bring himself to make an admission. “God, Hannibal… it hurts but I… I’m still hard.”

A deep rumble in Hannibal’s chest, then he rolls them onto their sides, the tug inside Will making him wince. Hannibal’s hand wraps around his cock and that’s almost painful, skin reddened from friction. But he doesn’t relent as Will squirms.

“Yes, you are,” he murmurs. “Despite the pain. Your body wants me just as badly.”

As he fingers the oversensitive head and Will clenches and whimpers, he makes soothing noises. “Shhh. You were magnificent, Will. So fierce in both your fury and your lust. You deserve a reward for taking me so well.”

“ _Please_.”

He grinds back on Hannibal as he’s stroked, his whine pitching embarrassingly high. Then he’s teetering on the brink. And he knows exactly what will push him over the edge.

“Bite me,” he pleads, voice breaking. “Mark me. Make it official.”

Hannibal’s grip tightens and his breath turns harsh, and that’s all the warning Will gets before teeth sink into the meat of his neck, not far behind his ear.

His vision whites out, and he’s coming, clenching around Hannibal, who rocks inside him very gently, his knot barely shrunken. He purrs against the flesh of Will’s neck, worrying the bite mark with his teeth and making Will jerk at the pain. He can feel blood trickling from the wound, and Hannibal laps it up.

Everything is fuzzy, pain receding to tingling and quiet aches. His own knot quickly diminishes in the absence of continued stimulation, but he’s not bothered. His body feels soft and heavy, yet groundless as a cloud, and the breath of his mate on the back of his neck makes him hum in contentment. “Endorphins,” he mumbles. “That’s a bonus.”

“When my knot recedes, you may bite me in turn. Preferably quickly, before my rut returns to force.”

“I should damn well hope I get to bite you, after all that,” he says, but not with malice. “You’re not going to try to knot me again, are you?”

Hannibal takes a moment to respond. “I will want to. But after the first knotting, I should be able to retain better control of myself. I could use your thighs instead, perhaps. The position would be similar.”

“You don’t sound very sure of that.”

“Once a rut begins, it is prolonged by rapid hormonal cycles. If I take a suppressant before the next cycle peaks, it will prevent the cycle after that from being fully initiated. You would only have to tolerate one more knot—any residual rut hormones should be at a manageable level after that.”

One more knot still sounds like it may kill him, but it’s also as reasonable a compromise as he could expect under the circumstances, considering Hannibal, though currently placated by the knot and more eloquent than most people would be in the same situation, is still under the influence of his rut.

So he nods. “Try not to send me to the hospital.”

“If you require any medical care, I will certainly take care of it myself.”

He just sighs. Hannibal knows perfectly well what he meant.

The knot is beginning to shrink—he feels it when the ache returns in force, muscles contracting resolutely now that they can. He groans and shifts uncomfortably.

By the time it slips out entirely with a mortifying slurp, cum now leaking from him rapidly, the pain is throbbing. He turns to face Hannibal. Watches his dark eyes and the fresh blood staining his mouth, the way he stares at Will like he’s the only thing in the universe that matters. Will leans in and kisses him, open-mouthed, tasting his own blood. Then pulls back quickly and bites Hannibal’s neck in the mirror image of his own wound.

Hannibal practically roars, and Will can’t tell whether it’s some primal satisfaction or just venting pain that is unobstructed by any sexual pleasure, but Hannibal jerks underneath him, and Will’s nails end up clawing into his shoulders to keep him still so he can work the bite deeper, ensure it is bleeding and set to scar. Hannibal’s blood is an even greater prize than his mouth, his taste concentrated beneath the tang of copper.

Sinking his teeth into his mate like this is deeply satisfying, and when he pulls back to examine his work he smiles broadly. Hannibal’s pupils are blown, his lips parted and panting, blood dripping down the side of his neck. He lurches forward to steady Will’s head with both hands and kiss him with unrivaled fervor, their blood coming together between their tongues.

He can see it now, not just feel it. _Mine_ , he thinks. _He’s all mine—marked as mine. And I am his._

But he forces himself to pull away, leaving Hannibal still straining for him. They need to take care of this quickly.

“Suppressants are on the bathroom sink,” he says. “You’ll have to get them yourself. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to stand.”

“You should take a painkiller, at least. Do you have one?”

“Took some Advil before I went to see you so I wouldn’t be limping so badly. Don’t think I’m due for more yet.”

“Very well.” He rises.

He wonders, briefly, if Hannibal resents being interrupted by suppressants. Probably. No real downside for him if Will suffers through it. But he’s agreed to it, and that’s something, at least.

Despite Will doubting his ability to stand, he’s able to wobble to his feet with some effort and quiet cursing. He wanders into the bathroom behind Hannibal and catches his reflection in the mirror, looking in even worse shape than he expected. He gapes at it, then turns and looks over his shoulder at the damage on his back, which is even more extensive.

“Fuck. I hope you’re happy with that.”

There are his preexisting scrapes and bruises, of course. The usual scars. Then bite marks, fresh bruises, scratch marks. Blood. Lots of blood. Dripped and drying from bite marks and smudged across skin with fingertips. And on his stomach and leaking down his legs, it’s mixed with a sizable quantity of cum.

Hannibal downs a pill, but his eyes are fixed on the man behind him. “I am, in fact, _immensely_ happy with what I have done to you.”

Will shivers. Hannibal turns to him and brushes his hands over his back with surprising softness. “A beautiful canvas,” he remarks. “It will take weeks for my marks to fade from your body, and by then I hope to have left more.”

Will feels Hannibal’s tongue lap at bite after bite, small sucks against the skin. His hand rubs between Will’s legs, gathering the cum that’s dripped from his hole, and Hannibal groans obscenely, resting his chin on Will’s shoulder and rubbing his face against his neck.

“I want to fill you again, Will,” he whispers. “It felt so perfect, more so than with any other. The desire to lock inside you, to give you my child, no matter the impossibility. So strong. Let me, just once more.”

Hannibal begins rocking his hips, just gentle pressure until he is erect once more, and Will is rather suddenly pushed face-first against the wall.

Will moans and bites his lip. He allows Hannibal to rub against him for a moment, but his heart begins to pound too fast. His body is still throbbing with pain. “You said something about thighs?” he asks softly.

A loose growl rattles in Hannibal’s throat. His fingers dig into Will’s ass and he spreads it, but he doesn’t penetrate it, simply rubbing his cock against it.

Will still whimpers. Even the external stimulation hurts—it must be inflamed and torn. And he’s afraid Hannibal will simply ignore him and deal with the consequences later.

But Hannibal finally shoves Will gracelessly out of the bathroom and onto his bed. “Face down,” he orders. “Flat. Legs together.”

Will hesitates, but he sees something fiery and sharp in Hannibal’s eyes that tells him uncooperative behavior will break this deal. Silently, he obeys.

He shudders when he feels Hannibal’s hands sliding down his back, and his hands curl into fists, bracing himself. He’s not sure how much more violence he can take.

But Hannibal slides his cock between Will’s thighs, high enough to rub against his perineum and nudge at his balls, until he’s flush against Will’s back, humping in a steady rhythm. He slides a hand underneath Will and presses them more tightly together, and Will focuses on the pleasure, blocking out the aches of his body.

It’s not long before Hannibal’s pace becomes desperate. He pants against Will’s back and squeezes so tightly it’s almost too much, and Will can feel a shift in pressure where they meet that must mean he’s preparing to knot.

But instead of knotting, Hannibal growls against his skin and nips so sharply and suddenly that Will’s whole body jerks, and his thrusts turn wild, uneven.

“I can’t,” he gasps, grinding to nearly a halt. His fingers scrape down Will’s side and onto his hip, harsh with frustration. “Will, please… just to finish. Just…”

“ _No_.”

“I want… I _could_ …” He shoves his face against Will’s back and groans. His nails dig in so sharply it’s almost punishing, and he humps hard but futile against him.

And Will is aware that Hannibal is again at the end of his rope, and that it is taking every ounce of self-restraint to do what he agreed. And the thought of how precarious this is, that any second Hannibal’s resolve could break and he could hold Will down and force himself in despite his protests, makes him moan with the shock of arousal and jut his hips back against Hannibal, which is answered by quick, desperate jerks of his hips, his panting beginning to sound more like sobs.

Will wonders if Hannibal’s body really can be fooled, and what the chances are that it will take him so long to knot like this that he’ll lose control before it happens. He remembers how he came last time despite the pain, and how good he felt after. He thinks of how Hannibal would surely finish quickly inside him, pushed as far to the brink as he is. He thinks of what he can do now—what stupid, reckless thing—and the roiling arousal in his stomach is enough to convince him to do it.

He reaches back to tug Hannibal’s hand away from his hip, pulls it all the way up to the nape of his neck, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Just do it,” he says. “Hold me down and take me.”

Hannibal makes a choked noise and swiftly readjusts himself. He is lucid enough to add spit to try to ease the way some more, but that’s all. Will didn’t expect anything else.

Despite his verbal consent Will’s body bucks wild at the first sign of pressure, the sheer terror of knowing that pain is just the start. Hannibal grips the back of his neck firmly and secures his waist, and pushes in regardless of the thrashing, which gets far worse when he sinks in a few inches more. But Hannibal moans in relief and Will forces himself to still for at least a moment, his struggling fading into trembling. The arm on his waist eases enough find Will’s dick, pinned between stomach and mattress, and start massaging it.

“You feel perfect, Will,” Hannibal breathes. “Just like this. My glorious mate.” The words offer some comfort, a shiver down his back that’s more pleasure than pain.

He nuzzles against Will and when his growing knot is flush with him, he goes in slowly, little rocks of his hips, whispering something that’s not quite comprehensible. Will tears up and grabs a fist of bedspread. He was already so sore, and the leftover lube, cum, and spit, while they are certainly better than nothing, are not quite enough to make up for it. The pain is still sharp and searing, and it’s just as bad as he feared. But he submits to it, lets Hannibal split him open until that’s all he feels, until his world is a bright burst of pain haloed by fuzzy pleasure. He growls with his teeth sunk into the sheets, stopping himself from crying out until Hannibal is fully seated within him and his knot pops, causing a final excruciating stretch. Hannibal’s hips give one sharp jerk before he’s moaning as he comes, entire body spasming with the force of his orgasm, flexing his fingers in the hairs at Will’s nape and gnawing at his bruised skin until it splits. Again, and maybe even more so after edging for so long, it takes a long time for him to come down from it, for his cock to stop spilling inside of Will. Will involuntarily clenches around him and indulges the burning pain and the sweet, relentless pressure inside him, until the pressure reaches its fullest point and Hannibal sighs, his body going limp on top of Will. He’s heavy, but Will’s too far gone to find this uncomfortable—he’s warm, and his mate is filling him up, and the weight soothes his trembling. The air smells like musk and salt and leather, and the hand in his hair is now moving gently and affectionately. The hand underneath him resumes a lazy pace as well, but Will winces and quickly intervenes.

“Too sensitive,” he mumbles, voice rough. “And if I come again I might actually die of exhaustion.”

Hannibal chuckles. “You are more resilient than that, I think.” But he stops, moving his hand up until it lies flat against Will’s stomach. “I doubt I have done enough for it to be reality, but I like to think I can feel a slight swell of your stomach here from how full I have left you.”

Will arcs into the hand slightly, breath shallow and cock twitching. “I think I like that idea, too.”

Hannibal sighs contentedly and rubs a small circle on his belly. “Perhaps someday it can be a reality. If we are better prepared. If you, specifically, are better prepared, and we allow my rut to run its course.”

There’s a brief silence. _Someday_.

“I think we have more to discuss before then,” Will says. “But this has at least… clarified some things.”

“I felt my solution was quite effective.”

“That’s a word for it.” He gives a huff of laughter.

“It seems to have worked out well enough for both of us.”

“I am in a whole world of pain, Hannibal.”

Hannibal shifts on top of him, causing a tug against raw flesh and painful pressure against his prostate. He makes an undignified noise and his hips twitch of their own accord.

Hannibal hums and settles with his breath on their bond mark. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your considerable masochism during this ordeal, Will. You seem to have derived much pleasure from this so-called ‘world of pain.’”

It was bad enough to notice it in the first place, but naming it as masochism makes Will bury his face in the mattress rather than answer, the embarrassment too acute.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Of course _you_ don’t think so. It’s convenient for you that you can hurt me and I’ll actually like it.”

“In a way. But pain is not all I seek from you. I would enjoy seeing you in rut, as well, for example. I would like to see you without the constraints of caution that informed your reaction today. I would like to see how your beast responds to me in its purest form, and how much violence you would do to me before it forgives, and forgets, and takes its pleasure.”

The idea of _taking his pleasure_ from Hannibal is enough to make him momentarily forget his oversensitivity and flex his hips, then squirm when it’s simultaneously too much and not enough. Hannibal strokes his flanks and lays a kiss on his bond mark.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, “I believe we would both find pleasure in that.”

“ _You_ aren’t a masochist, are you?”

“No. But I don’t have to be in order to enjoy experiencing your ferocity.”

Will takes a moment to steady his breathing and clear his head as well as he can. “Seems only fair for me to take my turn, then.”

“Good.” Hannibal nips at his shoulder lightly, almost playfully. “Then I suggest you do away with your suppressants and we continue as best we can until your rut arises. We can talk. Find a place to wait until law enforcement loses interest in us. And then we can settle our score.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been encouraged to do more self-promo and I'm planning some more active fandom stuff soon (fic swap, charity auction, etc) so if you want to find me on tumblr and ask questions or whatever, I'm [ethicsbecomeaesthetics](https://ethicsbecomeaesthetics.tumblr.com/) there. (No pillowfort because I didn't want to jump on that until they got things sorted out)
> 
> *Warning Details: Hannibal's rut makes him very aggressive and not lucid enough to negotiate, so even though Will is attracted and aroused, he is not happy about the circumstances. Will believes if he fights back, Hannibal's rut will become violent and he could end up killing Will. Heavy emphasis on blurring between fear and arousal. Multiple references to Hannibal's theoretical ability to overpower and rape him if he gets impatient. Will is uncomfortable about some very public sexual advances. Sex is *very* rough on Will physically, but there's some degree of masochism and he's still able to get off. Round two is better negotiated but Will is still pressured into painful penetration. The fear kink/slight masochism makes this all seem not as bad in context as it all sounds imo, but the elements are still there.


End file.
